


Bleached in Beer

by Birdgirl90



Series: Selfcerts: For Her [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Female self insert - Freeform, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl90/pseuds/Birdgirl90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a bar fight ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleached in Beer

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies!  
> Here we have an Eli fic involving a bar, a fight, and a fuck.  
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> ~Birdie

 It starts on your second beer.

He comes in and you can instantly tell he's itching for a fight. There's a wildness in his green, a fierceness overshadowing a simmering rage. Maybe that's what draws you to him - he’s like a caged animal at the bar counter, pacing in his mind with clenched jaw and tight muscles along his toned body. You laugh in your bottle at the contradiction in your head of a man so strong and yet so lean, bleached hair on his head flipping as he stares at you, eyes like hard emeralds.

“Something funny,” he snarls, voice over the top, something you expect from the elite who fancy garden clubs with pinkies and noses in the air with a animalistic undercurrent.

It sends shivers through your core as you realize the danger of the man beside you, the thrill of a hunt building. You smile deviously, decide to push this beast beside you.

“Just wondering why someone like you decide to frequent this dirt hole,” you say coyly, matching your gaze as you lift the bottle once more.

He blinks, and something falters in those piercing eyes, as if you've hit a weak nerve.

“Someone like me. The hell’s that supposed to mean,” he mutters. The mask of anger lifts just for a moment and you see a glimpse of vulnerability before he slips it back on.

 You decide right then you want to have him. And he apparently thinks the same, as he buys you a third beer and allows you to make idle small talk, only really revealing his name and how he hates his brother.

 You want to ask more, but a pinch on your ass makes you jump.

 “Hey there, cutie,” a slurred voice says as a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders and a dark haired face tries to look at you.

 You don't get two words in before Eli jumps fists raised, voice over the top.

 “Look but don't touch asshole. I will fucking kill you.”

 You aren't sure if that's a compliment or not, but the drunk around you lifts and you decide to just enjoy the show about to unfold.

 Punches and snarls, feral and dramatic, get the attention of most of the bar as Eli pummels your offender, a few other patrons falling into the fight as Eli singlehandedly takes them on, that inner rage you sensed earlier coming full fledged. He takes a few blows, a trail of blood from a split lip the only real sign of damage.

 At nearly the same time, you both realize the bartender’s calling the cops. Eli sends a last punch before grabbing your arm in his strong hand and dragging you out of the bar, your beer bottle dropping on the ground with a shatter. You're more than willing to let him take you wherever he wants, the fire in your gut mingling with the adrenaline of the fight and the danger of the man before you.

 You hear faint sirens in the background as he pulls you down an alleyway. You should be afraid and you know you should be afraid, but God damn the man in front of you makes you burn as you watch his chest rise and fall, his hand still on your arm.

 He looks at you, green eyes ablaze with what you feel, and suddenly his hands are pinning your wrists above your head to the brick wall behind you, lips crashing roughly against yours, the copper heat of his blood and the haze of the alcohol filling your desperate mouth as you bite and bruise against his pressure, lips swollen.

 You whimper in pain and pleasure and he takes that as encouragement to flip you against the wall, his arousal against you, still pining you.

 “Mine,” he growls, as if you are a prize he's won, his accent and the ferocity of the word making you snicker.

 He lets go long enough for a zipper and a tug, and you let him thrust into you, whimpering as he pants in your ear, bites your neck, rocks against you deeply and hard. The heat in your face blooms hot and deep, and you are content to let him have his way with you.

 He comes with a shudder and moan, pausing before flipping you again and kissing you hard. The grin he flashes makes you pull him in, suck and bite at his exposed flesh until he's as mottled as you, small growls from his throat egging you on.

 When at last exhaustion starts to kick in, he grabs your wrists once more, but gruffly wraps them around his firm waist. You look at him, his face flushed, eyes glinting.

 “Let me buy you another beer.” 


End file.
